


Six Skies

by faerymorstan



Category: Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead - Stoppard, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Existential Angst, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 13:22:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3251243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faerymorstan/pseuds/faerymorstan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>There was a man,</i> Sherlock says. He tried to pick the lock but he couldn’t. There isn’t a key; there must have been, once. There’s blood on his fingers. He might be in London. <i>A face on a screen. A tarmac.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Skies

**Author's Note:**

> for [kennichka](http://kennichka.tumblr.com). ♥

Grey sky. A sound like the cliffs beside the sea. Lonely. Tidal. Metal and wires and they’re on the roof, they’ve been on the roof, they were chasing they were being chased they are alone with the neon flickering white around the black letters, **I O U** , a code a threat a promise. 

_There was a man,_ Sherlock says. Paces. Impatient to go faster but he can’t, they’re cuffed, him to John and John to him and there’s a gravity between them he can’t escape. He tried to pick the lock but he couldn’t pick the lock. No key. Dried blood on his fingers. _A face on a screen. A tarmac._

_Yeah, but where are we now?_

Not London. He’d know London. 

Not outside of London. He’d know if he’d left.

_I don’t know,_ says Sherlock, sits, lets John swat the cigarette from his trembling hands. Sherlock sits awake, after. John moans in his sleep.

*

Grey sky. Fog subset Londinian subset probable as yet unconfirmed. No haste. No conclusions ahead of evidence. A billboard in the shadows. The outline of a distant building. Neon sparks and they’re on the roof, they’ve been on the roof, they were chasing they were being chased they are alone.

_There was a man,_ Sherlock says. He’d stand but they’re cuffed together and John refuses to cook standing up. He looked for the key but he couldn’t find the key and he tried to pick the lock but he couldn’t pick the lock. The camp stove flickers before them. _A face on a screen. A tarmac._

_I believe you, Sherlock, you know I do, but what good is it? We need a key. A compass. Wouldn’t say no to a gun, either, but we don’t need any more bloody memories._ John drops a sandwich on a plate and sets it on Sherlock’s lap. _Toasted cheese. Eat._  

He does. He licks his fingers. He doesn’t tell John they are, on balance of probability, already home.

*

Grey sky. The possibility of rain. It is night or it is day and if he waits, if he observes, the sun will rise or it will set and he will find his bearings. They walk, John’s cuffed hand in his, and they’re on the roof, they’ve been on the roof, they were chasing they were being chased they are alone.

_There was a man,_ Sherlock says. He tried to pick the lock but he couldn’t. There isn’t a key; there must have been, once. There’s blood on his fingers. He might be in London. _A face on a screen. A tarmac._

There was static in the image, signal in the noise.

_Mmm,_ says John, squeezes Sherlock’s hand. _Sounds familiar. Can’t say why._

The man, Sherlock knows with a sudden certain stab, once attacked John. The man once attacked Sherlock. The man once died but the man returned, returned and attacked--and attacked--.

_There were three of us._ A red coat and a white scarf and a pain deep in his chest. _Who was she?_

John frowns. _Who was who?_

(It was, they were pretty sure, a girl.)

_I don't remember._ Sherlock blinks. Smokes. John doesn’t stop him, toasts him a cheese, later cries out in his sleep.

*

Grey sky. Sparks. The smell of ozone. **I O U** writ large and dark behind them. A cipher. A puzzle he can’t solve; he isn’t a puzzle solver, he’s a drama queen. Someone told him so. Metal links bind his wrist to John’s and they’re on the roof, they’ve been on the roof, they were chasing they were being chased they are alone.

_There was a man,_ Sherlock says. He and John sit to watch a raven preen on a distant rafter. Wind from what might be the north. _How long have we been cuffed together?_  

John frowns. _Haven't we always been?_

Have they? _Of course not. Don't you remember before?_

_Before what?_

Before the grey and the roof and the letters. Before maybe-London-maybe-not. _There must have been a key, once._

John shrugs. _You could pick the lock._

He can’t. He’s tried. There’s blood on his fingers. John forgets. Sherlock debates whether to remind him but John speaks.

_I_ **_do_ ** _remember before, sometimes._

Sherlock rests his head on John’s shoulder. _Your nightmares._

_Mmm. A face on a screen. A tarmac._

_There were three of us then._

John nods. _She wore a red coat. A white scarf. Butterflies._  

_She isn’t here,_ says Sherlock. _Why not?_

*

Grey sky. A skeleton of beams and wires, power unreliable, gutter gone to rust on the building across the way. An emptiness. The whisper of a hidden sea. John’s eyes bright in the fog and they’re on the roof, they’ve been on the roof, they were chasing they were being chased they are alone.

_There was a man,_ Sherlock says. John tears a strip from his plaid shirt and ties it between Sherlock’s chafed skin and the handcuffs. 

_A face on a screen,_ John agrees. _A tarmac. You said. Wish I had some ointment for that wrist._

Sherlock growls his frustration, musses his hair, thumbs at the lighter in his pocket. _There were three of us. I remember._

(It was a girl. They were pretty sure.)

_You said. A red coat and a white scarf and a lock you can’t pick and none of it any goddamn use for getting us out of--wherever we are. Toasted cheese?_

_There must have been a key,_ Sherlock insists _. Once._

He picks at the crusts on the bread, at the scabs on his fingers. The neon letters flicker and buzz.

_I do miss her,_ says John, the stove clicking as he puts out the fire, _but I don’t know why._

*

Grey sky. The whisper of a static sea. A glow that might be sun and might be moon and might be neon. Chafed skin and bloody fingers and a puzzle, **I O U** , which may be noise and may be signal and they’re on the roof, they’ve been on the roof, they were chasing they were being chased they are alone.

_Butterflies,_ John says. _On her scarf. She was…._ He rubs ointment on Sherlock’s wrist. _We were pretty sure it was a girl._

Sherlock tries to pick the lock but he can’t pick the lock. He can’t find the key.

_There was a man,_ Sherlock says. _A face on a screen. A tarmac._

Is it London, this place and its flat echoes.

How will he know.

Sherlock reaches for a cigarette _._ John moves faster than Sherlock thought he could, grabs the box from Sherlock’s pocket, throws it over the ledge. They don’t hear it hit the ground. Sherlock scowls, glares, opens his mouth to complain, but--.

Footsteps.

Not theirs.

A smudge of red in the fog.

_Oh,_ John whispers. Squeezes Sherlock’s hand.

**Author's Note:**

> [for more info.](http://verymorstan.tumblr.com/post/109452447042/so-the-phenomenal-kennichka-drew-me-johnlockary)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Six Skies Cover Art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5497901) by [The Sign of Tea (NoPlastic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoPlastic/pseuds/The%20Sign%20of%20Tea)




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